Shirley Sweetness

Marcus wrote about London's hidden gems, and Chiamaka's Shirley ice cream parlor was the most hidden of all. A converted garage, impossible flavors, and lines around the block on summer days.

She was Nigerian-British, thick curves wrapped in a freezer-proof apron, creating impossible combinations—palm wine sorbet, chin chin crumble, zobo ripple.

"You want the story?" she said. "Stay past close. Taste things that aren't on the menu."

The parlor at midnight was cold from the freezers, but Chiamaka made him forget. She pulled flavor after flavor from her private collection.

"This one is for when I'm happy. This one for sad. This one..." She paused. "This one is for when I want someone."

"What's in it?"

"Taste and tell me."

It was warm despite being frozen—vanilla, honey, something that made his whole body heat.

"Aphrodisiac?"

"Just intention." She smiled. "Everything I make has purpose. That one was made thinking about you."

She drizzled ice cream on her own skin—cold trails down her warm thick body—and invited him to taste.

"Best way to experience flavor. With contrast."

He licked melting sweetness from her curves, feeling her shiver from cold and pleasure both.

"Yes... there... let it melt..."

They made love among the freezers, her thick body warm against cold steel. She came with sugar on her lips, and he followed, both of them tasting like everything she'd created.

"Now you understand my process," she breathed. "I make what I feel. And I've been feeling you for months."

"The feature," she said afterward, wrapped in his coat against the cold. "What will you write?"

"The truth. That you're an artist. That your ice cream is love made edible."

"Will you mention this?"

"This stays between us." He pulled her close. "Some flavors are too special to share."

His Shirley sweetness was the best thing he'd ever tasted. And Marcus had found a flavor he'd crave forever.